The Hexagonal Reverie A Victorian Fantasy ———  ✦  ——— Book One The Dream Begins Chapter I The Gentleman Beneath the Chestnut In the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-seven, when the Empire upon which the sun never set cast its long shadows across half the world, there lived in the county of Gloucestershire a gentleman named Arthur Penhaligon. He was, by all accounts, a most unfortunate fellow—possessed of fine breeding but empty pockets, of elegant manners but no prospects, of a poet's soul but a pauper's purse. His ancestral home, a modest manor called Willowmere, had long since passed into the hands of creditors. His only remaining possession of any worth was a small cottage on the edge of his former estate, where he lived in genteel poverty, sustained by the occasional kindness of neighbours and the meagre income from tutoring the children of the local squire. It was on a particularly melancholy afternoon in late August that our story truly begins. The summer had been cruel, bringing drought to the fields and sorrow to the hearts of farmers. Arthur had received that very morning a letter from his cousin in London, informing him that the position he had hoped for—a clerkship in a merchant house—had been given to another. What use is a gentleman without means? Arthur asked aloud, though there was no one to hear him but the birds in the trees. What purpose serves fine education when one cannot afford a decent coat? The world has no place for dreamers, it seems. He had wandered, as was his habit when troubled in spirit, to the old chestnut tree that stood at the boundary of what had once been his family's land. It was a magnificent specimen, its trunk broader than three men could encircle with their arms, its branches spreading like the wings of some benevolent giant. Beneath its shade, Arthur had played as a child; beneath its shade, he had read his first books of poetry and philosophy; and now, beneath its shade, he sought refuge from the cruelties of the world. From his worn leather satchel, Arthur produced a bottle of elderflower wine—a gift from old Mrs. Bramble, whose son he had helped prepare for university—and a small cup of tarnished silver, the last remnant of his mother's tea service. He poured himself a measure and raised it to the tree in a mock toast. To the Chestnut, he declared, who asks nothing and gives everything. May your roots run deep and your branches reach the heavens, for you have shown me more kindness than all the lords and ladies of England combined. The wine was sweet and potent, and as Arthur drank, he felt the weight of his troubles begin to lift, if only slightly. He leaned back against the rough bark of the tree and closed his eyes, letting the dappled sunlight play across his face like the fingers of some gentle spirit. Perhaps, he mused, half to himself and half to the tree, perhaps in another life, in another world, I might have been someone of consequence. A lord with lands and titles. A husband with a loving wife. A father with children to carry on my name. But in this world, in this life, I am merely Arthur Penhaligon—too proud to beg, too poor to live. A breeze stirred the leaves above him, and for a moment, Arthur fancied he heard whispering in their rustling. But it was only the wind, he told himself, and the wine making him fanciful. He poured another cup and drank it slowly, savouring the sweetness. The afternoon wore on, and the shadows lengthened. Arthur's eyelids grew heavy, and despite his best efforts to keep them open, sleep crept upon him like a thief in the night. The last thing he remembered was the sound of bees humming somewhere nearby—a sound that seemed to grow louder and more musical, as though the insects were singing a lullaby composed just for him. And then, the world dissolved into honey-coloured dreams. Chapter II The Descent into Apia Arthur found himself standing at the entrance to a tunnel. It was not a tunnel of stone or brick, such as one might find beneath the streets of London, but rather a passage formed from what appeared to be crystallized honey—translucent walls of amber gold that glowed with an inner light, as though the very essence of sunlight had been captured and preserved within them. Curiouser and curiouser, Arthur murmured, for he could not help but recall the words of Alice, that young lady whose adventures in Wonderland had captured the imagination of all England. I do believe I have fallen down a rabbit hole of my own, though this one seems decidedly stickier. He examined his surroundings more carefully. The tunnel sloped gently downward, and from somewhere far below came a sound like the humming of a thousand voices, harmonizing in a melody of such surpassing beauty that Arthur felt his heart ache with longing. The air was warm and fragrant, carrying scents of clover and lavender, of rose and jasmine, of flowers he could not name but somehow knew he had loved all his life. Well, he said to himself, I have nothing to return to above, and whatever lies below cannot be worse than what awaits me in Gloucestershire. Forward, then, into the honeyed dark! He began to walk, and as he walked, he noticed that the tunnel was not empty. Other travellers moved along its length—figures dressed in garments of such exquisite craftsmanship that Arthur could only stare in wonder. Their clothes seemed woven from moonlight and spider silk, from petals and morning dew, and they moved with a grace that suggested they were not entirely bound by the laws of ordinary physics. One of these travellers, a gentleman of dignified bearing, paused to regard Arthur with eyes that shimmered like opals. Newly arrived, I perceive, said the gentleman, his voice like the tinkling of distant bells. You have the look of one who has not yet learned our customs. Permit me to introduce myself: I am Lord Melifera, Chamberlain to Her Majesty the Queen. Arthur bowed, for even in this strange place, his manners remained intact. I am Arthur Penhaligon, late of Gloucestershire, though I confess I am not entirely certain how I came to be here. Ah, said Lord Melifera, with a knowing smile. You came through the Great Tree, did you not? The ancient chestnut that serves as one of our portals to the world above? Many have entered our realm thus, though few in recent years. The world of men has forgotten us, it seems. Your realm? Arthur asked. And what realm might that be, if I may be so bold? Why, the Kingdom of Apia, of course! Lord Melifera spread his arms wide, as if presenting a magnificent vista. The realm of the Bee-folk, the children of the Great Hive, the inheritors of the ancient wisdom. Come, I shall escort you to the capital. Her Majesty will wish to greet one who enters through the sacred portal. Arthur could scarcely believe what he was hearing, yet the evidence of his senses was undeniable. The crystalline tunnel, the strangely dressed people, the intoxicating scents and sounds—all pointed to a reality far beyond anything his rational mind could explain. And yet, he found himself curiously unafraid. There was something in the air of this place, something in the warmth and the light, that made him feel welcome in a way he had not felt for many years. They walked together, Lord Melifera and Arthur, and as they walked, the Chamberlain explained the nature of the kingdom they were approaching. Apia, he said, is the greatest of the hidden realms, the crown jewel of the subterranean world. Our history stretches back beyond the memory of your kind, to a time when the air was thick with oxygen and giants walked the earth. We Bee-folk have built a civilization of wonders—cities of hexagonal perfection, gardens of perpetual bloom, libraries containing the wisdom of ages. And your people? Arthur asked. Are they—that is to say—are you all bees? Bees? Lord Melifera laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. My dear sir, we are the Bee-folk! We have the form of your kind, but the essence of ours. We are what your philosophers might call a higher order of being—partaking of both the human and the hymenopteran, the mortal and the eternal. As they continued their descent, the tunnel opened suddenly into a vast cavern, and Arthur gasped at the sight that met his eyes. Before him lay a city of impossible beauty. Towers of golden wax rose hundreds of feet into the air, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and move when viewed from different angles. Bridges of spun silk connected the towers at various levels, and along these bridges walked the citizens of Apia—thousands upon thousands of them, going about their business with a purpose and efficiency that Arthur found both admirable and slightly overwhelming. The city was illuminated not by fire or gaslight, but by globes of pure luminescence that floated in the air like captive stars. These globes cast a warm, honey-coloured glow over everything, making the entire scene appear as though viewed through amber-tinted glass. Behold, said Lord Melifera, with evident pride, the capital city of Apia! There, in the centre, you see the Royal Palace—the Hexagonal Throne, home to Her Majesty Queen Mellifica the Wise. And there, to the left, the Grand Library, containing the histories of a million years. And there, to the right, the Gardens of Nectar, where bloom flowers from every age of the world. Arthur was speechless. Never in his wildest dreams—and he was beginning to suspect that this was, indeed, a dream—had he imagined such wonders. The city of Apia made London look like a crude collection of hovels, Paris like a provincial village, Rome like a forgotten ruin. Come, said Lord Melifera, taking Arthur by the arm. Her Majesty awaits. Chapter III The Royal Court The Royal Palace of Apia was, if such a thing were possible, even more magnificent than the city that surrounded it. Its six main towers rose in perfect hexagonal symmetry, each one a masterpiece of architectural genius. The walls were translucent, allowing glimpses of the activity within—courtiers moving through halls, servants carrying trays of delicacies, guards standing at attention in their uniforms of black and gold. Arthur was conducted through a series of antechambers, each more splendid than the last. The floors were of polished amber, the ceilings of carved ivory, the walls decorated with murals depicting scenes from the long history of the Bee-folk. He saw images of great battles against ancient enemies, of diplomatic triumphs and scientific discoveries, of queens and kings who had ruled for centuries. At last, they came to the throne room itself—a vast hexagonal chamber whose walls were composed entirely of crystallized honey, glowing with an inner fire that cast dancing shadows across the assembled courtiers. And there, upon a throne carved from a single massive diamond, sat Queen Mellifica. She was the most beautiful creature Arthur had ever beheld. Her hair was the colour of pure gold, woven with threads of amber that caught the light and sent rainbows dancing across the room. Her eyes were deep and dark, like pools of liquid honey, and they regarded Arthur with a mixture of curiosity and kindness. She wore robes of spun silk, embroidered with patterns of bees and flowers in threads of precious metals, and upon her head rested a crown of interlocking hexagons, each one containing a different coloured jewel. Approach, she said, and her voice was like music—not the music of instruments, but the music of nature itself, the song of wind and water, of birds and bees. Approach, Arthur Penhaligon of Gloucestershire, and let me look upon one who enters through the ancient portal. Arthur approached, his heart hammering in his chest, and knelt before the throne with all the grace he could muster. Rise, said the Queen. In Apia, we do not require such displays of obeisance from our guests. You are welcome here, Arthur Penhaligon, for you have entered our realm through the sacred way, and that marks you as one of special significance. Your Majesty is most gracious, Arthur said, rising to his feet. I confess I do not understand why I have been brought here, or what significance you believe me to possess. I am but a poor gentleman of no particular importance. Ah, said the Queen, with a smile that made Arthur's heart flutter, but that is where you are mistaken. The Great Tree does not allow just anyone to pass through its portal. Only those with pure hearts and open minds may enter Apia. And besides— she paused, and her smile grew warmer, —my advisors have consulted the ancient prophecies, and they tell of a stranger from above who would come to us in our time of need. Prophecies? Arthur asked, bewildered. Your Majesty, I assure you, I am no prophet or hero. I am merely a man who fell asleep beneath a tree. And yet here you are, said the Queen. Here you are, in the Kingdom of Apia, at a moment when we most need the wisdom of the world above. But we shall speak more of this later. For now, you must be tired from your journey. Lord Melifera will conduct you to chambers where you may rest and refresh yourself. Tonight, there shall be a banquet in your honour. Arthur opened his mouth to protest, to explain that he was unworthy of such treatment, but the Queen raised her hand and he fell silent. It is decided, she said, and though her voice remained gentle, there was steel beneath the honey. You are our guest, Arthur Penhaligon, and in Apia, guests are treated with the highest honour. Go now, and prepare yourself. I shall look forward to speaking with you more at the banquet. Lord Melifera led Arthur away, and as they walked through the palace corridors, Arthur could not help but marvel at the strange turn his life had taken. Only hours ago—or was it days? time seemed uncertain in this place—he had been a penniless gentleman contemplating the emptiness of his existence. Now he was a guest of honour at the court of a magical queen, in a kingdom beneath the earth. Curiouser and curiouser, he murmured again, and Lord Melifera laughed. You shall find, my dear Arthur, that in Apia, the curious is the commonplace, and the commonplace is the curious. Now, here are your chambers. Rest well, for tonight you shall dine with royalty. The chambers assigned to Arthur were more luxurious than any he had ever known. The bed was draped in silk of the finest quality, the furniture was carved from rare woods and inlaid with precious metals, and the windows—for there were windows, though how they could exist underground Arthur could not fathom—looked out upon the glowing city of Apia. He lay upon the bed, meaning only to rest for a moment, but sleep claimed him almost instantly. And in his dreams, he saw a face—a face of such beauty that he wept with joy even in his slumber. It was the face of the Queen, but younger somehow, softer, with laughter in her eyes and roses in her cheeks. When he woke, it was to the sound of trumpets announcing the hour of the banquet. Servants entered his chambers, bearing garments of the finest quality—a coat of midnight blue velvet, trousers of cream silk, shoes of soft leather adorned with golden buckles. They dressed him as though he were a prince, and when they showed him his reflection in a mirror of polished silver, Arthur barely recognized himself. If this is a dream, he said to his reflection, let me never wake. Book Two The Honeyed Throne Chapter IV The Wedding of Wings The banquet was a spectacle beyond anything Arthur had ever witnessed. The great hall of the palace had been transformed into a garden of wonders—tables laden with dishes that defied description, fountains flowing with wines of every colour and flavour, musicians playing instruments that produced sounds no human ear had ever heard. Arthur was seated at the high table, to the right of Queen Mellifica herself—an honour that caused no small amount of whispering among the courtiers. The Queen spoke to him throughout the meal, asking questions about the world above, about England and its empire, about the strange customs of men and their even stranger inventions. Your steam engines sound fascinating, she said, her eyes alight with curiosity. We have no need of such devices here, of course—our power comes from more natural sources. But I should like to see one of these locomotives someday. Do you think it would be possible? Your Majesty, Arthur replied, if you wished to see a steam engine, I am certain that one could be brought to— he paused, realizing the absurdity of what he was about to say, —to wherever the entrance to your kingdom might be found. The Queen laughed, a sound like silver bells. You are charming, Arthur Penhaligon. I believe I shall keep you. The words were spoken lightly, but they sent a thrill through Arthur's heart that he could not explain. He looked at the Queen, and found her looking back at him with an expression that made his breath catch in his throat. The days that followed were the happiest Arthur had ever known. He was given the freedom of the city, and he explored its wonders with the enthusiasm of a child. He visited the Grand Library, where scholars showed him histories written on tablets of wax that dated back millions of years. He walked through the Gardens of Nectar, where flowers bloomed that had been extinct in the world above since the time of the dinosaurs. He attended concerts where the music was so beautiful that it brought tears to his eyes. And always, everywhere he went, he was aware of the Queen's presence. She seemed to take a particular interest in his education, often joining him on his explorations, explaining the history and significance of everything they saw. She spoke to him as an equal, with a warmth and intimacy that Arthur had never experienced from anyone of her station. It was on the seventh day of his stay—or was it the seventeenth? Time flowed strangely in Apia—that the Queen made her intentions known. They were walking in a private garden, reserved for the royal family alone. The garden was filled with flowers that glowed with their own inner light, casting a soft radiance over everything. The Queen stopped beside a fountain that flowed with liquid gold—pure honey, she explained, the finest in all the kingdom. Arthur, she said, and for the first time since he had known her, she sounded uncertain. Arthur, I must speak with you of something important. Something that concerns us. Your Majesty, Arthur said, his heart beginning to race. I am yours to command. It is not a command I wish to give, she said, turning to face him. It is a question. Arthur, I have lived for three hundred years, and in all that time, I have never met anyone who made me feel as you do. Your kindness, your curiosity, your gentle spirit—these are qualities I have read about in books but never encountered in life. I find myself wishing that you might stay here forever. Arthur felt as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. Your Majesty, I—I do not know what to say. I am honoured beyond measure, but— Please, she said, and her voice was almost a whisper. Please, call me by my name. My true name, the one only my closest family knows. Call me Beeby. The name hung in the air between them, heavy with significance. Arthur repeated it softly, feeling its sweetness on his tongue. Beeby, he said. It is a beautiful name. Then you will stay? she asked, her eyes bright with hope. You will stay, and be my companion? My consort? My— she hesitated, then spoke the word with a courage that Arthur found deeply moving, —my husband? Arthur's mind reeled. Marriage? To a queen? To a being of magic and mystery, three centuries old, ruler of a kingdom beneath the earth? It was madness, utter madness. And yet—and yet—when he looked into her eyes, he saw not a queen or a magical being, but a woman. A woman who was lonely, who had lived too long in isolation, who had found in him something she had been seeking without knowing it. And he realized, with a clarity that surprised him, that he had been seeking the same thing. Yes, he said. Yes, Beeby. I will stay. I will be your husband, if you will have me. The wedding, when it came, was the most magnificent celebration in the history of Apia. The entire kingdom rejoiced, for their queen had found love at last, and the people loved her with a devotion that Arthur found both humbling and inspiring. Arthur was crowned Prince Consort, and given the title of Lord Protector of the Realm. He was clothed in robes of gold and black, the royal colours, and presented to the people as their future king. And as he stood beside his bride, looking out over the sea of faces that stretched to the horizon, Arthur Penhaligon felt a happiness so profound that he thought his heart might burst with it. Chapter V The Hexagonal Palace The palace that Arthur and Beeby shared was a marvel of architectural genius. It consisted of six main towers, arranged in a perfect hexagon around a central courtyard. Each tower served a different purpose—one for state functions, one for private residence, one for the royal library, one for the treasury, one for the guard, and one for guests. The towers were connected by walkways of spun crystal, delicate as spider silk yet strong as steel. From these walkways, one could look out over the entire kingdom of Apia—the glowing city, the gardens that stretched for miles, the distant mountains of crystallized honey that marked the boundaries of the realm. Arthur's private chambers occupied the entire third floor of the residential tower. They were decorated according to his tastes—bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes from the royal library; comfortable chairs were arranged near windows that looked out upon the gardens; a writing desk of polished mahogany stood ready for his use. I had your rooms furnished with items from your world, Beeby explained, when she showed him his new home. I hope they please you. They are perfect, Arthur said, and meant it. But you need not have gone to such trouble. I would be happy anywhere, as long as you are with me. Beeby smiled, and kissed him gently. You say the sweetest things, my love. Now, come—I have something else to show you. She led him to the central courtyard, where a garden of extraordinary beauty had been created. Flowers of every description bloomed there, many of them species that had been extinct in the world above for millions of years. Butterflies with wingspans as wide as a man's armspan flitted from blossom to blossom, and birds of impossible colours sang in the branches of trees that seemed to be made of living crystal. This is our private garden, Beeby said. No one may enter here without our permission. It is our sanctuary. Arthur took her hand, and together they walked through the garden, admiring its wonders. They came at last to a pavilion of white marble, overlooking a pool of water that glowed with a soft blue light. The Pool of Visions, Beeby explained. It shows those who gaze into it images of what might be. Some say it reveals the future, but I believe it merely shows possibilities—paths that might be taken, choices that might be made. Arthur looked into the pool, and for a moment, he thought he saw—but no, it was gone too quickly to grasp. A flash of green, perhaps? The colour of English fields in spring? What did you see? Beeby asked. I'm not certain, Arthur admitted. Something green. Something familiar. Beeby was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was troubled. Arthur, there is something I must tell you. Something about the nature of our kingdom. What is it? The Pool of Visions shows not only what might be, but also what was. And what was, for our people, was glorious. In ages past, Arthur, the Bee-folk ruled not only this underground realm, but the entire world above. We were the masters of the earth, the builders of civilizations that made your Rome and your Egypt look like villages of savages. Arthur stared at her. The entire world? The entire world, Beeby confirmed. Two hundred million years ago, in the time your scientists call the Triassic, the earth was a different place. The air was thick with oxygen, the plants grew to enormous sizes, and insects—we insects—grew to match them. We built cities that reached the clouds, we created art and music and philosophy that has never been equalled. We were the lords of creation. What happened? Arthur asked, though he already knew part of the answer. Change, Beeby said softly. The world changed. The oxygen levels fell, the great forests died, the climate shifted. We could not survive in the new world—not as we were. So we retreated here, to the underground realms, and built new cities, new civilizations. But we never forgot what we had lost. And we never stopped hoping that someday, somehow, we might reclaim our place in the sun. But you've survived, Arthur said. Your civilization continues. In a manner of speaking, Beeby agreed. We have preserved much of our knowledge, our culture, our way of life. But we are shadows of what we once were. The great cities are gone. The vast libraries, the magnificent artworks, the scientific achievements—all lost to time. What remains is but a fraction of what we were. Arthur was silent for a moment, contemplating the vast sweep of history Beeby had described. Then he asked, Why are you telling me this? Because you are one of the few who can understand, Beeby said. Your journey through the portal has changed you, Arthur. You can see us, hear us, understand us in a way that no other human can. And because— she hesitated, —because you loved one of us. You loved Queen Beeby, and she loved you. That bond creates a connection that transcends the barriers between our worlds. Chapter VI Years of Golden Harvest The years that followed were the happiest of Arthur's life. He and Beeby ruled Apia together, and under their guidance, the kingdom flourished as it had not for centuries. Arthur brought new ideas from the world above—methods of organization, techniques of agriculture, principles of governance that he had learned from his studies of history. The Bee-folk, in turn, taught him their ancient wisdom—the secrets of the flowers, the language of the bees, the philosophies that had sustained them through millions of years of underground existence. They had children—three of them, two daughters and a son. The eldest daughter, named Mellifica after her mother, was clever and ambitious, with a mind like a steel trap and a will to match. The younger daughter, Apis, was gentle and artistic, with a talent for music that brought tears to the eyes of all who heard her play. The son, Bombus, was strong and brave, a warrior born who would one day lead the armies of Apia. Arthur watched his children grow with a pride that bordered on pain. He taught them to read and write, to think critically, to question everything—even the ancient traditions of their people. Some of the older courtiers disapproved of his methods, but Beeby supported him, and the children thrived. The Hexagonal Palace rang with laughter and music, with the sounds of learning and growth. Arthur had never known such contentment. The poverty and disappointment of his former life seemed like a bad dream, fading with each passing day. And yet—and yet—there were moments, late at night, when Arthur would wake from dreams he could not remember, with a strange ache in his heart. He would rise from his bed and go to the window, looking up at the ceiling of the great cavern that housed the kingdom, and he would wonder what lay beyond. The world above. England. Gloucestershire. The chestnut tree. He never spoke of these feelings to Beeby. What was there to say? That he missed a life of poverty and disappointment? That he longed for the cold rain and the muddy roads of England? It was absurd. And yet, the feeling persisted—a vague nostalgia, a sense that something was missing, something he could not name. Twenty years passed in this manner—twenty years of joy and growth, of love and learning. And then, on the twentieth anniversary of his wedding to Beeby, disaster struck. Book Three The Waning Moon Chapter VII Shadows in the Hive The trouble began, as troubles often do, with a whisper. Arthur first heard it from a servant—a young Bee-folk named Cerana, who had been with the palace since before his arrival. She came to him one morning, her eyes downcast, her hands trembling. My lord, she said, I must speak with you. There are things being said. Things you should know. Arthur set aside the papers he had been reviewing—reports from the eastern provinces, where a new strain of flower was being cultivated—and gave the servant his full attention. What things, Cerana? Speak freely. You know I value your service. It is the old lords, my lord. They are saying— she hesitated, as if afraid to continue. Say it, Cerana. Whatever it is, I will not hold it against you. They are saying that you are not truly one of us. That your ideas—the changes you have made—are corrupting the purity of our culture. They say that the queen has been bewitched, that she no longer acts in the best interests of the kingdom. They say— her voice dropped to a whisper, —they say that you must be removed. Arthur felt as though ice water had been poured down his spine. Removed? he repeated. Do they mean— I do not know, my lord. I only know what I have heard. The old lords meet in secret, in the chambers of Lord Vespula. They speak of the ancient ways, of the need to return to tradition. They say that the prophecy was false, that you are not the one who was promised, but rather a deceiver who has stolen the heart of our queen. Arthur sat in stunned silence. He had known that some of the older courtiers disapproved of his innovations—the new schools, the revised laws, the opening of trade with other underground realms—but he had never imagined that they would go so far as to plot against him. Thank you, Cerana, he said at last. You have done right to tell me this. Say nothing of it to anyone else—I will handle the matter myself. When the servant had gone, Arthur sat for a long time, thinking. Should he tell Beeby? He knew that she would be furious, that she would demand the immediate arrest of those involved. But that might only make things worse—turning whispers into open rebellion. No, he decided. He would handle this himself. He would confront Lord Vespula and the others, try to reason with them, find a compromise that would satisfy everyone. It was a noble intention. But noble intentions, as Arthur was about to learn, are not always enough. Chapter VIII The Fall from Grace The confrontation with Lord Vespula did not go as Arthur had hoped. He had arranged to meet the old lord privately, in the gardens of the palace, hoping that a neutral setting might encourage open dialogue. But when he arrived, he found not only Vespula but a dozen other nobles, all wearing expressions of stern disapproval. So, said Lord Vespula, a tall, thin Bee-folk with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice. The upstart has come to plead for mercy. Arthur kept his temper in check. I have come to talk, my lord. To understand your concerns, and to explain my own. Surely we can find common ground. Common ground? Vespula laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. There is no common ground between purity and corruption, between tradition and innovation. You have poisoned our queen's mind with your foreign ideas. You have turned our children against the ancient ways. You have made us weak, dependent on other realms, open to influences that can only destroy us. I have done nothing but try to help your people thrive, Arthur said, his voice steady despite his rising anger. The changes I have introduced have made Apia stronger, not weaker. The new schools have produced scholars of unprecedented ability. The trade agreements have brought wealth and resources we never had before. Wealth? Vespula sneered. Resources? These are the concerns of merchants, not nobles! We were great before your kind even existed, human. We ruled the world when your ancestors were still crawling in the mud. We do not need your help to be great. The argument continued for hours, but no resolution was reached. Lord Vespula and his followers were immovable in their conviction that Arthur was a threat to be eliminated, and Arthur could not compromise his principles to appease them. When he finally returned to his chambers, exhausted and discouraged, he found Beeby waiting for him. She had learned of the meeting—news traveled fast in the palace—and she was furious. How dare they? she demanded, her eyes flashing with royal wrath. How dare they conspire against my husband? I shall have them all arrested! I shall have them exiled! I shall— No, Arthur said quietly. Beeby stared at him. What? I said no. If you arrest them, you will only make martyrs of them. The discontent will spread, and soon you will have open rebellion on your hands. Then what would you have me do? Beeby asked, her voice trembling with frustration. Stand by and do nothing while they plot against you? Give me time, Arthur said. Let me try to win them over. If I can show them that my intentions are good, that my changes have benefited the kingdom— But time was not something Arthur had. The very next day, a delegation of nobles presented themselves before the throne, demanding that Arthur be stripped of his titles and expelled from the kingdom. They brought charges—fabricated, every one of them, but cleverly constructed—that Arthur had been spying for foreign powers, that he had embezzled from the treasury, that he had plotted to overthrow the queen and seize power for himself. Beeby rejected these charges with scorn, but the nobles were prepared. They had documents, witnesses, evidence that seemed damning. And they had something else—the support of the people. For while Arthur had been focused on his reforms, Lord Vespula and his followers had been whispering in the ears of the common folk. They had played on fears, stoked resentments, turned the people against the foreign prince who had come among them and changed their ancient ways. By the time Arthur realized the extent of the conspiracy, it was too late. The people, his people, had turned against him. In the end, it was Beeby who made the decision. She could have fought—could have used her royal authority to crush the rebellion, could have arrested the conspirators and imposed martial law. But that would have meant civil war, bloodshed, the destruction of everything she and Arthur had built together. Instead, she chose exile. Chapter IX The Return The farewell was the hardest thing Arthur had ever endured. He stood in the crystalline tunnel that had brought him to Apia, twenty years ago—or was it a thousand? Time had lost all meaning. Behind him stood Beeby, her face wet with tears, her hands clutching his as though she could not bear to let go. I will find a way, she promised, her voice breaking. I will make them see. I will bring you back, my love. I swear it. Arthur shook his head. No, he said gently. Do not make promises you cannot keep. The people have spoken, and their will must be respected. But— Beeby. He took her face in his hands, looking into her eyes for what he knew might be the last time. I have had twenty years of happiness with you. Twenty years of love, of family, of purpose. That is more than I ever dared to hope for in my old life. Do not mourn for me. Live, my love. Rule your kingdom. Raise our children to be the great leaders I know they can be. I cannot bear to lose you, she whispered. You will not lose me, Arthur said, though his own tears were flowing freely now. I will live in your heart, as you will live in mine. Always. They embraced one last time, holding each other as though they could merge their bodies into one. And then, with a strength he did not know he possessed, Arthur turned and walked away. The tunnel seemed longer on the return journey, the crystalline walls less welcoming, the golden light somehow dimmer. Arthur walked with his head down, not daring to look back, for he knew that if he saw Beeby one more time, his resolve would crumble. At last, he reached the end of the tunnel. A door of living wood stood before him—the ancient chestnut, he realized, the portal between worlds. He placed his hand upon it, feeling the rough bark beneath his fingers, and pushed. Light flooded his vision, blinding him. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and felt grass beneath his hands. Grass. Real grass. English grass. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and slowly, the world came into focus. He was kneeling beneath the chestnut tree. The same tree where he had fallen asleep—how long ago? Hours? Days? Years? The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the field. A cool breeze rustled the leaves above him. And beside him, still half-full, was the bottle of elderflower wine. Book Four The Awakening Chapter X Beneath the Same Tree Arthur sat beneath the chestnut tree for a long time, trying to make sense of what had happened. A dream. It had all been a dream. The kingdom of Apia, the Queen, the marriage, the children, the fall from grace—all of it, nothing but the fanciful imaginings of a sleeping mind. And yet—and yet—it had felt so real. The memories were as vivid as any from his waking life. He could still feel Beeby's hand in his, still hear her voice, still smell the honey-scented air of the underground kingdom. A dream, he said aloud, as if saying it would make it true. Only a dream. But even as he spoke, he noticed something that made his heart skip a beat. There, at the base of the tree, was a hole—a small opening in the ground, partially hidden by roots and grass. And from that hole, he could hear a sound. Humming. The humming of bees. Arthur crawled closer, his heart pounding, and peered into the hole. What he saw took his breath away. It was a beehive. A perfectly ordinary, perfectly natural beehive, with hexagonal cells of wax, and bees moving about their business, and honey glistening in the light of the setting sun. But—and this is where Arthur's mind reeled—the hive was arranged in a pattern he recognized. Six main towers, arranged in a hexagon around a central courtyard. The Hexagonal Palace. It was impossible. It was absurd. It was— You see it, don't you? Arthur jumped, nearly hitting his head on a branch. He turned, and found himself looking at— A bee. Not an ordinary bee, though. This bee was larger than any he had ever seen, nearly the size of his thumb, and it was looking at him—actually looking at him—with eyes that seemed to hold intelligence, awareness, understanding. You—you spoke, Arthur stammered. Of course I spoke, said the bee, in a voice that was surprisingly deep and resonant for such a small creature. You are one of the few who can hear us. The portal has opened your ears, as it once opened your eyes. Arthur's mind was reeling. The portal? You mean—the tree? The dream? Was no dream, the bee said. What you experienced was real, Arthur Penhaligon. As real as this tree, as real as this hive, as real as you or I. The Kingdom of Apia exists, though not in the way your waking mind can comprehend. But—but I was there for twenty years! And yet, when I woke, only a few hours had passed! Time flows differently in the realm between realms, the bee explained. A day in Apia might be a minute in your world, or a century. The portal cares nothing for your human notions of hours and years. Then—then Beeby is real? The children? Everything? As real as anything in this world, the bee confirmed. Though you may never see them again, at least not in the way you did before. The portal opens rarely, and for most, only once in a lifetime. Arthur felt a profound sadness wash over him. To have found such love, such happiness, and then to lose it forever—it was almost more than he could bear. But the bee was not finished. Chapter XI The Ancient Secret There is more you should know, the bee said. More that was revealed to you in Apia, but which your waking mind has forgotten. The history of our people—the true history. The Triassic? The ancient civilization? Exactly. The bee settled onto a nearby leaf, folding its wings with the air of a professor preparing to deliver a lecture. Two hundred million years ago, Arthur Penhaligon, the world was a very different place. The oxygen content of the atmosphere was much higher than it is today—nearly thirty-five percent, compared to your current twenty-one percent. This allowed insects to grow to enormous sizes. Dragonflies with wingspans of two feet. Centipedes eight feet long. And bees—we bees—we grew large enough to develop intelligence. Arthur listened, spellbound, as the bee continued. We built cities, Arthur. Great cities of wax and silk, towering structures that would dwarf your greatest cathedrals. We developed writing, mathematics, philosophy. We explored the world, catalogued its species, mapped its continents. We were the first civilization on this planet, and for fifty million years, we ruled unchallenged. What happened? Arthur asked, though he already knew part of the answer. The Great Dying, the bee said, and its voice was heavy with ancient sorrow. A catastrophe that wiped out ninety percent of all life on earth. The oxygen levels fell, the climate changed, and we could no longer survive in the open air. We retreated underground, to the caverns and tunnels beneath the earth, and there we have remained ever since. But—but you've survived, Arthur said. Your civilization continues. In a manner of speaking, the bee agreed. We have preserved much of our knowledge, our culture, our way of life. But we are shadows of what we once were. The great cities are gone. The vast libraries, the magnificent artworks, the scientific achievements—all lost to time. What remains is but a fraction of what we were. Arthur was silent for a moment, contemplating the vast sweep of history the bee had described. Then he asked, Why are you telling me this? Because you are one of the few who can understand, the bee said. Your journey through the portal has changed you, Arthur. You can see us, hear us, understand us in a way that no other human can. And because— the bee hesitated, —because you loved one of us. You loved Queen Beeby, and she loved you. That bond creates a connection that transcends the barriers between our worlds. Will I—will I ever see her again? Arthur asked, his voice barely a whisper. That I cannot say, the bee replied. The portal opens when it wills, not when we will it. But I can tell you this: your time in Apia was not wasted. The changes you made, the ideas you introduced—they will continue to bear fruit. You may have fallen from grace in the eyes of the nobles, but the common folk remember you with love. And in time, perhaps, that love will overcome the hatred of the few. Arthur nodded slowly, finding some small comfort in the bee's words. Thank you, he said. Thank you for telling me this. I have one more thing to give you, the bee said. A gift, from the Queen. The bee reached into—Arthur could not say where, exactly—and produced a small object. It was a hexagon, no larger than a coin, made of some material that seemed to be neither metal nor stone nor wax. It glowed with a soft, warm light, and as Arthur took it in his hand, he felt a surge of emotion that brought tears to his eyes. It is a piece of her heart, the bee explained. A fragment of the love she bears for you. As long as you carry it, you will never be truly apart. Arthur closed his fingers around the hexagon, feeling its warmth spread through his body. Tell her, he said, his voice choked with emotion. Tell her that I love her. That I will always love her. Until the end of time. She knows, the bee said softly. She has always known. And with that, the bee spread its wings and flew away, disappearing into the hive beneath the tree. Epilogue The Dreamer Remains Arthur Penhaligon lived for another thirty years. He never married, never sought another love. The memory of Beeby was too precious, too vivid, to be replaced by any earthly affection. He lived quietly in his cottage, supported by a small pension from the squire whose son he had tutored, and spent his days in study and contemplation. He wrote a book—a fantastical tale of a man who dreams of a kingdom beneath the earth, who marries a queen of bees and lives happily until fate intervenes. The book was published to modest success, and many read it as a charming fairy tale, a work of imagination in the tradition of Carroll and MacDonald. Only Arthur knew the truth. He kept the hexagon with him always, carrying it in his pocket during the day and placing it beneath his pillow at night. And sometimes, in his dreams, he would catch glimpses of Apia—the glowing city, the hexagonal palace, the gardens of nectar. He would see Beeby, still beautiful after all these years, looking up at the ceiling of her underground world as though she could see through it to where he stood. And he would wake with tears on his cheeks, and a smile on his face, and the warm glow of the hexagon in his hand. When at last he died—peacefully, in his sleep, at the age of seventy-two—they found him beneath the chestnut tree, where he had gone to rest on a warm summer afternoon. His face was serene, his lips curved in a gentle smile, and in his hand, clutched tightly, was the hexagon. They buried him beneath that same tree, as he had requested in his will. And if you go there today, on a warm summer evening when the sun is setting and the bees are humming in the flowers, you might hear—if you listen very carefully—the sound of voices. A man's voice, gentle and loving. A woman's voice, warm and honey-sweet. Speaking words that have no need of translation, in a language older than human speech. Words of love. Words of forever. Words that say, across the boundaries of worlds and the barriers of time: I am here. I have always been here. I will always be here. And beneath the tree, in a hive that has stood for a thousand years, the bees hum their ancient song, keeping watch over the dreamer who finally woke to find that his dream was real, and that love, true love, transcends even the boundary between waking and sleep. The End